The Weight of Another
by Calculated Artificiality
Summary: There are moments- these are four of them.
1. Moment 1

I:

The day she began loving him is the day she learned to breathe. It was October, and the hair was falling across his forehead, and she reached her hand up to brush it out of his eyes. He caught her hand with his, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist—in that moment, she was _alive_ in a way she never had been before.

She was 22, and she was covered with wounds from a past that didn't make it easy for her to trust. There were things, she knew, that were stronger than love—there were things, she knew, that made love weak. She had spent the better part of her childhood waiting for her father to love her mother, waiting for her father to love her.

She spent the better part of her childhood crawling into her mother's bed in the middle of the night, she'd wrap her gentle arms around her mother's fragile body, and stroke her hair with the patience only a child can bring to their parent.

"You shouldn't have to do this, Gilly," Her mother would say, her voice warbling and sad.

"Shh," She would say—then, "I love you," And her mother would cry harder.

If her father stumbled home, she'd crawl out of their bedroom, holding her breath, and lie awake in her bed, waiting for the sun—this day, she knew, would be better.

She spent the better part of her childhood getting over that idea—realizing that tomorrow was not magic, and there was no salve to heal the gaping wounds—that they were, simply, a hazard of love.

And so, at 22, she brought her wrist to her body, and ran the pad of her thumb over the place his lips had touched.

"I love you." She said simply, but it was a revelation.

And he smiled, pulled her close to him, and dropped his lips to her ear—"I love you back."


	2. Moment 2

II:

She sat in the back room of the church, surrounded by flowers and white, and felt the nerves nestle in her stomach—the weight of the world crushing down upon her. She wasn't nervous to marry him—more than anything, she knew this was what she wanted.

She was nervous for the reception, for her father to be around people; he had been sober for a few years, but it was impossible for her to break the habit gnawing at her gut—she would not take care of him, she would not watch in anguish as he stumbled out the door as he did the afternoon she graduated from high school.

Early in the planning process, she decided that she would not have a dry wedding—her father would spend the evening gripping the sides of a chair, his knuckles white.

She would spend the evening laughing and drinking champagne with her husband, content in her decision not to allow her past to dictate her future.

It was April, and she walked herself down the aisle that day—it was not her father who was giving her away, he'd done that years ago, the first time she cried in her crib and he picked up a bottle instead of her. _She_ was giving herself to her fiancé, not anyone else, and the gravity of the gesture had not escaped her.

She learned at an early age that to love was complicated—and she spent years promising herself that she never would. Her walk down the aisle said that she had changed her mind—she would love no one but him. She put one foot in front of the other, and looked nowhere but at him—it was their moment to share, no one else's, and the fact that over a hundred people were looking at her and whispering her name didn't change that.

She caught his eyes and they told her everything she needed to know—this was the right decision, and no amount of her past creeping into her present could make her deny or question that.

They said their vows, and the minister spoke those fateful words: "I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss the bride."

She raised her hand to touch her husband's face for the first time, her fingers grazing the soft skin on his face—he turned his head to the side. Her hand stayed on his face, and his lips brushed the inside of her wrist, his gaze never leaving hers. The kiss was quick, light, but she felt something in her stomach begin to relax, felt the weight of his love surround her—he brought his mouth to hers, once, twice, and then they walked down the aisle hand-in-hand.


	3. Moment 3

III:

The grandfather clock she inherited from her mother chimes three times, echoing in the living room as darkness envelops the house. She heard his heavy footsteps fifteen minutes ago, felt them on her heart; they have been married ten years, yesterday. She has been happy for eight, disjointed for one, and heartbroken for another.

She makes her way up the stairs, trying to reconcile the tears in her eyes with the sadness in her heart—trying to keep them from getting to know one another yet again. She passes the bathroom door, sees the light on, hears the retching. She should keep going—more than anything, she wants to keep going. But, this is not the disjointed year.

She blinks once, and then pushes the door open—the light shines on everything that is wrong, and she wishes she could shut it off so at least she wouldn't have to _look_. He's huddled over the toilet, but he senses her presence, and draws his head back from its perch on the arm draped across the toilet seat—he tries to smile, but he only manages a grimace, and she shakes her head.

Propelled into action by the dissonance, she grabs a washcloth from the cabinet, runs cool water over it. Crouching down next to him, she takes the cloth and runs it over his skin. He tries to speak, but his words are muffled, and she doesn't want to hear them, anyway—

"Shhh," She says, pressing the cloth to the back of his neck. She gets up and runs the cool water over it again, returning, she places it on his forehead, his temples, resisting the urge to draw him into her lap and cradle him. The fingers of her other hand reach up, intending to find their way into his hair—but he stops her short, weakly grabbing her wrist. He presses his lips to the tender skin there.

Her reaction is automatic, her skin burning at his touch—she shoots back from him, pressing her back against the bathroom door, the washcloth falling on the tile of the bathroom floor. She can still feel the awkward pressure of his mouth, and she rubs her fingers over the spot, trying to erase his presence from her flesh. She feels the tears welling up, and she doesn't stop to analyze why she's crying, instead, she turns on her heel, turns off the light, and shuts the bathroom door behind her on her way out.

If he speaks her name, she doesn't hear it—she showers in the master bath, rubbing a loofah over the place his lips had been, but she can't get it clean enough—the skin is raw, red from her efforts, when she finally slips underneath her covers, pulls them up to her chest, and waits for sleep to overtake her-in her dreams, her husband's touch doesn't hurt her.


	4. Moment 4

IV:

It is their last day in the house. The emptiness surrounds her, swallows her whole. If walls could talk, she knows they'd keep her secrets. But, the hardwood floors, warped and sad, would betray the nights she spent on her knees. They would tell of devolution.

Love gave way to recompense gave way to prayer gave way to sorrow gave way to anger gave way to goodbye. Love and hate, and even absolution all echo the same way. And, really, that's all there is to it.

The floor creaks under the weight of his step as he walks to her, his hair falling over his eye. She resists the urge to push it out of his face—it's not her job, anymore.

He looks around, the white walls screaming at them—the windows cry that they didn't try hard enough. She did, he didn't, and that's the truth of it; only the doors know what a miracle it is that she didn't walk out the front one sooner.

"I'm sorry," He says, shrugging his shoulders., because it's simple, and it's true. His voice is quiet, but it bounces off the walls and lands in her heart—nesting in the tiny space she will always have reserved for him. She knows he is, she nods. "I'm so sorry." He says, and he brings his hand to her face—his hand is unsteady, weighed down by the gravity of it all, the weight of his choices, her decision—so is she.

The pad of his thumb brushes over her cheek, and she turns her head to the side—her lips barely touch the inside of his wrist before she pulls away. He stares at her for a moment as she nestles into his palm, only for a second before she walks away.

And then he is crying, she can feel it, though she can't see it or hear it—she's known him for so long in so many ways she can sense it, but she can't turn around and go to him. Her feet carry her to the door, and she slips out of it-out of a house and a life and a husband she once loved-the concrete is a refuge from the bitter hardwood echo.

There is silence, and she revels in it. Goodbye happened a long time ago.


End file.
